“Five pounds is nothing to sneeze at,” Ivy insisted. “You can really see it in your face.”

  “I’ve lost three pounds,” Tyeesha said proudly. “We’ve been walking.”

  “Go easy on that ice cream, if you wanna keep it off,” Ivy cautioned before turning her attention toward Sharon. “You were always good at making speeches. I always wanted you to take up the law. You would’ve been a terrific lawyer.”

  “You heard our conversation, huh?”

  “I couldn’t help but hear it, the way your voice was carrying.”

  “Oh, we didn’t mean to disturb the peace,” I said.

  “This isn’t a tea party, there’s no peace being disturbed,” Ivy assured me. “Sharon, I have something I want to say to you.”

  “I’ll go check out the ice cream,” I volunteered.

  “Me, too,” T said. “But I’ll just have a couple of scoops.”

  “No, Dee Dee, you stay in here,” Ivy insisted. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re like family. Tyeesha, I want you to hear this, too. There will be plenty of ice cream left.

  “I’m from the South, so bear with me,” Ivy began as she and T pulled up a couple of chairs. “Dee Dee, I know you know what I’m talking about, because you’re a Southerner.”

  “I left Alabama when I was almost four,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah, but you spent summers there, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then. Once a Southerner, always a Southerner.”

  I thought of myself as a Chicagoan, but I didn’t argue with Ivy. It would go against my Southern hospitality.

  “I wanna tell y’all a story. It’s a true story,” Ivy continued, clasping her hands in front of her. “It happened to me. It’s nothing fantastic or worth writing down, but maybe it’ll mean somethin’ to y’all.”

  And maybe it won’t, I thought. You said yourself, it’s nothing fantastic or worth writing down. And when you get finished telling us your uneventful story, all of the homemade ice cream might even be gone. But I listened politely anyway.

  “I used to be an X-ray technician,” Ivy began. “T, do you remember that? Remember when you were growing up and I used to wear a white uniform and white stockings and shoes?”

  “Oh, yeah. They were always so clean and starched.”

  “When I started out as a technician, it was before the days of spray starch. You used to buy a box of rock starch. Sharon and Dee Dee, y’all remember that.”

  “Yeah.” Sharon nodded. “Argo Starch in that blue and white box.”

  “Kids used to like to suck on starch,” I added.

  “And chew on it,” Sharon said.

  “We didn’t have all the modern gadgets they have now,” I said in response to T’s bewildered expression.

  “When I was a little girl, our toys were mostly sticks and rocks,” Ivy added, causing T’s jaw to drop even furthur. “Anyway, back to my story. I was a young woman in February 1967. It was a hopeful time. Progress was being made, the world was changing. Despite the fact that we were in the grip of a fierce Chicago winter. But, it was still a hopeful time. I don’t remember whether the groundhog had seen his shadow or not that year,” Ivy rambled. “Six weeks never made any sense, noway. Any Chicagoan knows that an early spring means the season ticket holders don’t have to dust snow off their seats on baseball’s opening day.”

  “I heard that.” I smiled.

  “Anyway, like I said, the times were hopeful,” Ivy continued. “And I was hopeful. People were just beginning to drop the words ‘colored’ and ‘Negro’ by the wayside, and we were becoming black.”

  “Those really were the olden days, huh?” T asked.

  I chuckled. I was unaccustomed to thinking of my youth being referred to as the olden days.

  “I had a secure job at a big white hospital on the near North Side,” Ivy continued. “I was bringing home a decent wage. And, although I was yet to meet the man of my dreams, I was content with the pride that my family and even the neighbors took in seeing me stepping out in my white uniform.”

  “It was a different time, all right,” I said for T’s benefit. “We had a sense of community then,” I explained. “Neighbors knew who you were.”

  “And they cared who you were,” Sharon added.

  “They were hecka nosey, huh?” T frowned.

  “Yeah, but they still cared about you,” Sharon insisted. “Whatever you did reflected on the whole community, back then.”

  “The entire race,” I added.

  “Well, they pretty much referred to me as a nurse,” Ivy continued. “It was no point in always trying to explain to folks that I was just an X-ray technician. I once corrected my neighbor, Mrs. Lyle, who stayed up on her front porch during the summer months. After she told me how proud she was of me for becoming a nurse, I tried to tell her my job title. But she said they let me wear the nurse’s uniform, so I was a nurse. From then on I was referred to by her as an X-ray nurse.”

  “It’s funny, all the years I worked at a black hospital on the South Side, there was nothing even resembling a psychiatry department. Some folks used to read the Defender just to find out how many Negroes got killed over the weekend. And don’t let it be a holiday weekend. Anyway, no matter how many folks got shot or stabbed or got a faceful of hot grease or scalded by grits, they never even had a psychologist on duty.”

  “That’s ironic,” Sharon mumbled.

  “Well, I got over there to the near North Side with the rich white folks, and lo and behold, didn’t they have a whole psych wing? Just goes to show you.” Ivy took a drink from her lemonade.

  “In those days, black women were too busy coping to have nervous breakdowns,” I said.

  “And brothas didn’t consider suicide over a lost job or a bad business decison,” Sharon pointed out.

  “I just wanted to give you all a little background about that cold, clear morning that I rode the El like any other morning.”

  “Okay, the suspense is killing me,” Sharon teased.

  Yeah, cut to the chase, I started to say. But then I remembered that you can’t rush a Southerner.

  “It was early, the 6:38 A.M. train, the third car,” Ivy drawled on. “I’ve never ridden the 6:38 A.M. train and the third car since that day,” she said solemnly. “Never.”

  We listened patiently, giving Ivy her propers, showing respect for our elder.

  “Anyway, I sat down next to a man in an aisle seat. That time of morning the train was carrying a lot of domestics and factory workers. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, a man came up from behind me and hit me with his fist as hard as he could.”

  Sharon, T and I gasped and sighed in reaction, as Ivy continued her story.

  “I slumped over toward the man sitting next to me and said with disbelief, ‘That man hit me.’ The man sitting next to me looked at me like I was dirt.”

  “Didn’t anybody come to your aid?” I asked.

  “I heard a woman’s voice say, ‘I don’t know why he hit her,’” Ivy replied. “You know how people are, especially black people,” she added. “If something bad happens to a woman, they usually find a way to twist it around and make it the woman’s fault.”

  “Yeah,” Sharon agreed. “As if there’s ever an excuse for abuse.”

  I sighed. “They probably figured he was your man, and he whupped you. And they didn’t want to get involved.”

  “Deep down, a lot of people hate victims,” Sharon said, narrowing her eyes. “Believe it or not, it’s easier for them to identify with the perpetrator.”

  Yeah, that’s why so many incest victims are so reluctant to come forward, I thought. That’s why so many of us are alone with our pain.

  “But you would think somebody would’ve shown a little compassion,” T said, her voice choked with emotion.

  “No one even asked, ‘Dog, how do you feel?’” Ivy said, shaking her head. “Anyway, the next stop was mine, and I managed to stumble off the train. I thought for a minute that maybe it hadn’t really happened. I didn’t really feel anything. I just felt numb. But then I felt the pain. By the time I got to work, my face had swelled up like a melon. I told my immediate supervisor what had happened, and she was very sympathetic. Nancy was white, but she was sweet toward everyone.”

  “Thank goodness, somebody showed you some compassion,” T said, sounding a little relieved.

  “Just goes to show you, good and bad come in all colors,” Sharon pointed out.

  “When Nancy told the big boss what had happened to me, can you believe what he said?”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Maybe if she does some work, she’ll feel better.’ He said that right in earshot of me.”

  “He was cold,” I said.

  “He was hecka cold,” Tyeesha added.

  “You know how cold people can be, especially white people,” Sharon’s aunt said matter-of-factly.

  “Yeah, definitely, back then,” I agreed. “Attitudes were just beginning to change.”

  “Your boss was worse than the people on the train,” Sharon said angrily. “In fact, he was as bad as the man who hit you. He didn’t show you one ounce of compassion.”

  “He should’ve asked you if you wanted to lie down and rest,” T said.

  “They should’ve offered you treatment,” I added. “There you were in a hospital.”

  “Nancy did give me an ice pack to use during my break. But otherwise I had to put in my eight hours, just like nothing happened.”

  “Your boss treated you like a slave,” Sharon muttered.

  “I had to ride the El home that night. I didn’t have money for a taxi. And I had to ride the train the next morning. But I never rode the third car of the 6:38 A.M. train again, and it’s been almost thirty years. Mama comforted me when I got home, but nothing could erase the trauma entirely. We concluded that it was just one of those random acts of violence. I will probably go to my grave not knowing why that man attacked me.”

  “It makes me hecka sad,” Tyeesha said.

  “Yeah,” Sharon and I agreed.

  “I didn’t mean to bring y’all down,” Ivy said softly. “I never talk about that story, but Sharon, after you opened up to me about yourself, I got to studyin’ on a lot of things. I remembered my experience on the El and to my surprise I could relate it to your situation.”

  “My situation?” Sharon looked puzzled.

  “Yeah, your taking up with women.”

  “I’m only dating one woman, Aunt Ivy.”

  “Dee Dee, you know what I mean. You’re from the South.”

  “She just means that you’re a lesbian,” I told Sharon.

  “I was trying to find a pretty way of saying it. You didn’t have to be so blunt,” Ivy protested. “Anyway,” she continued, “I haven’t finished having my say about this lesbian business, if that’s what y’all wanna call it.”

  The room got real quiet. We were hanging on every word. Suddenly, the outside chatter of the others sounded like it was coming from a distant yard. The air had changed also. I could feel the increased humidity, even in the cool basement. My head began to sweat and I noticed the odor of barbecue lingering on my greasy fingers.

  “I know how alone I felt on the El train that morning when that man hit me and nobody showed any feeling for me,” Ivy continued, staring at the three of us. “I knew all of y’all would have empathy for me if I told you my story.” She swallowed. “Doubt didn’t even cross my mind. And I asked myself, would I have empathy for someone that happened to if it hadda been a man? And the answer was, yes. I asked myself, would I have empathy if that had happened to a white person? And the answer was, yes. I asked myself, would I have had empathy if that had happened to a gay person? And the answer was, also, yes. What I’m trying to say is, baby, I don’t ever want you to feel isolated with your pain.” Ivy swallowed. “And whatever adjustments I have to make to accept you, I’m going to go ahead and make ’em,” she added, choking back tears.

  Sharon hugged Ivy, and there wasn’t a dry eye among us.

  “Auntie, you remind me of Forrest Gump in the movie,” Tyeesha said.

  “What do you mean?” Ivy asked.

  “You know, the part when Forrest Gump says, ‘I may not be a smart man, but I know what love is.’”

  seventeen

  Sharon was all up in arms several days later because while doing the laundry, she’d found cigarettes in Tyeesha’s pocket. I couldn’t blame Sharon for hitting the ceiling. Even though she and I had both tried cigarettes in high school and had been occasional smokers in college, neither of us had ever gotten hooked. We were both eternally grateful for that.

  Sharon asked me to give her some backup around this smoking, and I did. I got as serious as lung cancer when I got up in T’s face.

  “Dee Dee, I only smoked a few cigarettes,” Tyeesha protested as I backed her into a corner in her cluttered bedroom. “You and Mom act like I have a two-pack-a-day habit.”

  “We’re nipping this mess in the bud before you do have a two-pack-a-day habit,” I shouted, popping my fingers in Tyeesha’s face. “Cigarette smoking is not an option for you. There’s nothing to discuss. We don’t need to have a dialogue. Do you understand?” I towered over T like a drill sergeant.

  “You make it sound so bad,” Tyeesha whined.

  “It is bad,” I said emphatically. “Smoking can kill you.”

  “Everybody who smokes doesn’t get cancer.”

  “I don’t like the odds. And I told you, I’m not going to argue with you about this, Tyeesha. I’m drawing my line in the sand. And if you cross it,” I threatened, “you’re no longer my godchild. That’s the real deal, okay?” I said, narrowing my eyes. I knew I was selling woof tickets, but I just hoped that T would buy them. I didn’t know what else to do.

  Tyeesha’s mouth flew open and she gave me a pained look.

  I hoped that my pronouncement had rendered her speechless. She’d never known a time when she didn’t have me in her life.

  “Dee Dee, I thought you would be my godmother until the world blew up,” Tyeesha said in a shaky voice, her lips quivering.

  I was touched by her show of emotion. But I knew that I still had to stand firm. “I really hate putting my godmothership on the line,” I said, solemnly, “but baby girl, I’d rather do that than for you to die a slow, painful death from lung cancer. Now you can make your choice. I’ve said my piece.”

  “Dee Dee, I’m not into cigarettes,” Tyeesha protested. “I just tried them, that’s all, but I know it was whack. I never thought you all would jump in my Kool-Aid like this about smoking.”

  “Well, now you know. We consider cigarettes a big no no.”

  Tyeesha rolled her eyes. “I’m playing soccer at school now. I’d look stupid having a cigarette jones and calling myself an athlete, now wouldn’t I?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “hecka stupid.”

  I was startled by the doorbell a couple of nights later. “Langston, who could that be coming to see us this late? It’s after eleven o’clock.” The orange and white mass of fur straightened itself out as if suddenly on duty. I knew that nobody was collecting for some charity this late at night.

  “Who is it?” I shouted into the intercom, trying to sound tough.

  “Dee Dee, it’s me.”

  The male voice sounded familiar and he knew my name. But I wasn’t certain of its origin. “It’s me, who?” I asked.

  “Phil.”

  “Phil! What are you doing over here? Is everything all right with Sarita and Jason?”

  “They’re okay, sort of. Buzz me up so I can tell you what happened.”

  “What do you mean, sort of?” I raised my voice.

  “Just let me in. Don’t make me talk about my business out here in the street.”

  Phil better not be coming over here trying to get over. Things could get ugly. I wasn’t sure if letting him in was the right thing to do. But then again, it wasn’t like he was some kind of monster. I mean, we went way back. I pressed the buzzer. Something must’ve happened, I told myself. Phil wouldn’t be over here after eleven at night for nothing. But what could’ve happened? Was Sarita or Jason in the hospital? Had Jason had an asthma attack? I opened the door to a sullen-faced Phil.

  “I’m glad you’re still up,” Phil said, glancing at me in my yellow terry-cloth bathrobe and my hair standing all over my head.

  “Yeah,” I answered, feeling a little self-conscious. “I just took my braids out. I’m getting my hair redone tomorrow. So, anyway, tell me what happened?”

  “Sarita and I had it out,” Phil reported, with almost a hint of relief in his voice.

  “What do you mean, had it out?”

  He sighed as he folded his tall frame into my leather recliner. Langston had already scooted upstairs. He was one of those cats that didn’t take to men.

  Nervously, I asked, “It didn’t come to blows, did it?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Not quite? What do you mean, not quite?”

  “It came close, but no punches were actually thrown.”

  “Where was Jason?”

  “Up in his room, probably pretending to be asleep. But nobody could’ve slept through all that glass breaking.”

  “Glass breaking! What got broken?”

  “Just a set of cheap dishes.”

  Sarita always kept a set of cheap dishes, just in case she went off. They must’ve finally come in handy.

  Suddenly, the phone rang loudly, startling me. I still had the ringer up as high as it would go because I was hoping to hear from Skylar. But I doubted that he would call this late.

  I felt my body tense up. “What if that’s Sarita?” I asked, my eyes wide open.

  Phil looked like if he hadn’t seen a ghost, he’d at least seen a rat.

  “Don’t answer it,” he ordered.

  “She’s my friend, I can’t betray her.”

  “You’re not betraying her,” Phil insisted. “Just pretend you’re not home.”

  “The voice mail has picked up now,” I said. “Maybe I should check to see who it was. Maybe it wasn’t Sarita. Maybe it was somebody else.” I picked up the phone. “They didn’t leave a message,” I reported. “It probably was Sarita; she figured I wasn’t home, and didn’t want to leave a message. She doesn’t know you’re here, does she?”